Absent Roses
by GhostKiss
Summary: John and Sherlock investigate a child prostitution ring, and John learns a secret while Sherlock learns emotions. John/Sherlock romance, John POV, TW for sexual violence
1. Part One

Hello! ACR here with another story.

I actually started writing this just hoping for just a one-shot ficlet. Nine pages later I still wasn't even close to done.

It occurs to me this will probably be at least 3 parts. Sigh.

John POV, John/Sherlock LOVIN, lot's of angst, Trigger Warning for Sexual Violence

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock. Sadly.

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><p>"She's a child, Sherlock. More importantly, this may be our only chance to talk to her. I need you, for once in your life, to be patient, and maybe a little kind. She's scared, and you might be the only person who can get any information out of her."<p>

I had never seen Lestrade so serious before, about anything, and I had certainly never seen him talk to Sherlock like that. However, I knew the importance of this case. Whether or not Sherlock did, I was unsure. It was London's most renowned child prostitution ring, one that had evaded the Yarders for just under ten years, and they finally had a lead thanks to an anonymous source. With it, they had found a girl, who was sold for sex, and brought her in. According to chatter, she was terrified.

This was a bad situation. I knew that now, especially as I watched Lestrade and Sherlock glare each other down. No one in the force could get information out of her like Sherlock, and they only really had one chance. However, I knew Sherlock was shit at interrogation, because he didn't have the patience. Even worse, he was crap at dealing with kids. I didn't know how anyone expected him to do it.

"Where is she?" Sherlock finally asked, looking away. He had shown interest in this case, probably because it was so big. Everyone knew about the ring, but no one had been able to find anything out about it. I once heard from Lestrade that Sherlock had tried to crack the case before with his homeless network. It was the only time he had ever been really baffled. I knew he was eager to solve it, what I didn't know is if he was really willing to be a decent human being for five seconds to solve it.

"A social worker came in to work with her. The girl refuses to talk, but she has been staying with the worker at a nearby house," Lestrade pointed his head down the long hallway to his left, "She's in one of our interrogation rooms down that way, right now. We can't keep her there for long."

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment before speaking, "I'll do it, and I'll even be nice. But under two circumstances."

"Which are?" Lestrade looked like he was trying hard not to roll his eyes.

Sherlock turned sharply, "No one can watch me work with her. I want no one in the room, near the room, listening in. You can have one officer outside the room, I suppose."

Lestrade's mouth hung open, "Sherlock, it's already bad enough I'm bringing you in here to talk to her. I have to have someone in the room at least-"

"Secondly," Sherlock interrupted smoothly, like he hadn't been listening, "I want John in the room with me."

I had to do a double take and gape at him. _What?_ Why would Sherlock want me in the room with him? He never had before. Something about that made Lestrade seem less worried, though. I half-wondered if he trusted me, or if he just knew I was good at being Sherlock's handler.

After a moment; "Fine. But I'll need one cop outside the room, as well as her social worker. Okay?"

"Fine," Sherlock said deeply. Lestrade turned and walked down the left-hand hallway, and Sherlock and I followed and a quick pace. I walked close to my black-haired friend and send him a sideways glance.

"Why am I coming in with you, Sherlock?" I was genuinely curious, though part of me already knew. I kind of wanted him to say it, though. That he trusted me enough to tell him if he was going too far, or if he was doing something wrong. He seemed to lack the tact for seeing those things on his own.

He didn't look at me, "You always say I'm bad with children. Now's your chance to help me."

I knew it.

Lestrade stopped swiftly outside a tall door. It looks like most of the other doors to the interrogation rooms, but I had never been in here before. A tiny sign near the doorknob said 'children's interrogation'. I gulped slightly.

"Alright," Lestrade faced us again, "She had been out of the prostitution ring for a few months, though we don't know much about her escape other then there is an organization that has been doing vigilante work freeing some the kids. We need facts; locations of the houses, which people are running it, the people funding it, anything she knows that can be helpful."

"I understand," Sherlock rolled his eyes, like it was all obvious.

Lestrade's face hardened, "She is a victim of sexual assault and rape. She barely trusts her female social worker, and she mostly seems to hate men. If it were up to me, I'd have all-female officers in there. However, if anyone is going to crack the case, it's you. And you have certain… coercion tactics; I know you can make her talk. Just be NICE, Sherlock. And be careful of what you say."

Neither of those things sounded like what Sherlock could do. But then, Lestrade turned to me, "And you. Make sure he doesn't fuck this up. You're the only one who can deal with him. If I hear of any bad behavior, Sherlock, you'll never interrogate someone again."

With that, he turned and knocked hard on the door. I heard a small bit of sound; a few calm, soft words. And then the door opened and two women walked out. The officer that had been inside was young, I had seen her around. I'd never seen the social worker before, but I was impressed. She was shorter than most girls, but in her thirties at least, with wavy black hair, tan skin, and bright, green eyes. She was very attractive, even in her fairly conservative suit. Something about her eyes reminded me a bit of Sherlock, which made it that much worse that I found her attractive.

She was turned towards the room as she left, looking at the girl, I assumed, "I'll be right outside while the nice men talk to you, sweetie," She turned and met our eyes, "She's shy. Good luck."

I offered her a smile, but she wasn't looking at me. Her eyes were sealed on Sherlock, and she looked so untrusting it made me a bit uncomfortable. Apparently he was well known for his bad behavior with interrogation, or maybe his awkwardness with kids. Both seemed extremely likely.

Sherlock let out a breath, and I almost wondered if he was nervous. It wasn't normal behavior, but understandable. This was his only chance to make up for a case he couldn't solve; one that likely haunted him. There was no doubt in my mind that he felt frustrated not being able to solve it.

He turned heel and walked calmly inside, I followed close behind and shut the door quietly. The room was unlike most of the interrogation rooms. The walls were painted a soft yellow, which made me think of a psychological journal I once read about the colour yellow making people more comfortable and happy. It had nice, carpeted floors, and even a small window, where the sunset was gleaming through. In the center of the room was a small wooden table and a few soft looking, purple reclining chairs.

In the farthest chair was the girl, no more than twelve years old. She had very pale skin and bags under her eyes, as well as a few bruises and some band aids on her bare arms that I assumed hid cuts. She looked like she had been living homeless, though she wore a slightly-too-large T-shirt and brand new jeans and sneakers. Her blonde hair looked newly washed and down in two thick braids, though it had obviously not been cut in a long time. She was clutching a stuffed bear, one of the many stuffed creatures around the room.

She looked up at us, and once again my most sincere smile was for nothing, as her eyes went straight to Sherlock. She looked torn between curious and blatantly uneasy, nervous. Sherlock walked at a slow pace, and took the seat in front of her. I occupied the one next to his.

He wasted no time in speaking, which secretly annoyed me. Always so rushed.

"Hello. My name is Sherlock, this is my friend, John."

His voice was less deep than it usually was, and ten times more sincere. He leaned back in his chair and smiled at her. My heart sped up at that smile, something that was a usual occurrence but still baffled me. She looked still more guarded, and didn't answer, but seemed to settle more in her seat.

"I should tell you right now, we don't work with the police. We're more of… superheroes. Like Batman."

She actually smiled at that. I watched Sherlock, who smiled with her. He was being unnaturally communicative-

"I should also tell you, that I'm like you," His smile faded a bit, "I've been… hurt. And violated."

His words slammed into me like a wall, and I bit back the urge to glare at him. It wasn't uncommon for him to milk information from people by lying, but this was just a bit different. This was something very serious.

"Really?"

The voice didn't come from him. It was small, faded, sounded a little more broken than anyone would have hoped. I looked at the girl, who was marveling at him. Apparently, she hadn't talked to anyone. And with a few sentences, she spoke to Sherlock. I was a little impressed.

Okay, a lot impressed.

"Yes." Sherlock smiled, obviously pleased at his success.

She paused, realizing she had broken her code of silence, "Oh."

"Can we ask you what your name is?" I said, offering her a smile. She looked at me harshly; looking so fierce I thought she might rip off my head. I nearly jumped, and then I felt Sherlock's hand touch mine, and her vision strayed to it. I looked over at him curiously, but he was locked onto her, "Don't worry, he's my friend. He's very nice, so no need to be scared."

Her face softened but she still looked wary of me.

"You don't have to tell us your real name, if you don't want to. But do you have something we could call you?"

"Mmm…" She hummed, looking thoughtfully around the room. Her eyes lingered at the window, "Moon." It was kind of weird how, all of the sudden, she trusted Sherlock. Maybe him saying he was raped was just evil enough to work.

"Okay, Moon." Sherlock purred in amusement, which sounded wonderful to me, "We were wondering if we could ask you some questions."

She looked down at her feet, "The nice lady already asked me what they did, but I wouldn't answer."

"It's okay, I don't want to know that. I'm like you, so I already know."

She looked up and frowned sadly at him, "Okay."

Frankly, I had never seen Sherlock be so kind towards a child, and I had certainly never met a child who preferred him over me. He was looking at her with sympathy, but if you really looked, you could see something else. Something I didn't recognize. Something close to genuine sadness in those blue eyes.

"How did you escape the bad place, Moon?" Sherlock said, taking me out of my train of thought.

She pushed herself onto the edge of the chair, "People like you, the superheroes."

"Superheroes?" Sherlock leaned forward, "Who were they?"

Her face became confused, "I don't… know."

"Well surely-"

"What do you mean, superheroes, Moon?" I cut him off, sensing him getting annoyed. He glanced at me and nodded.

"Someone once told me about them, but I didn't know they were real. They come at night, when we are sleeping, but they aren't scary. Girls and boys, they tell us to wake up, because they are saving us," Moon stroked the stuffed bear, "They put us in their truck and carried us far away, to houses where we could sleep. And then they split us up, take us to these big houses with lots of other homeless kids."

"Orphanages," Sherlock says. I know he's speaking more to me than her, but she answers.

"Yes, those. I remember they said orphanages for the little kids, shelters for the big kids."

"Did you hear them say anything else?"

"Um, no," She squinted her eyes like she was thinking hard, "They told us not to talk about this, to not tell anyone, if we wanted to be safe. That was about a year ago."

Sherlock just nodded.

"Moon," I said. She looked at me less grudgingly, I think because Sherlocks hand was settled on my knee, "Do you remember how you got to the place you were being held?"

"I think about that sometimes," She turned back to Sherlock, "If I try really hard, I remember my mum and dad. I lived in a tiny house, I think I had a big brother. I remember daddy drove me to London one day, and left me with some men. After that..." Her face grew suddenly panicked and terrified. I was a little disturbed. The way she told the story made it seem like her father had sold her…

"It's okay," Sherlock smiled at her, "You don't have to talk about it."

"No, it's okay. I think," She looked between us, "I think if I tell you, you can help?"

"We want to help, Moon. If you can tell us anything about the places they took you, maybe we can save the other kids. Maybe we can make sure no more kids are taken."

She looked amazed and disturbed, like Sherlock had just pulled out a unicorn that pissed stars. I knew that, the only reality she knew was one that used her. Anything else was probably…

I settled down and met her eyes, they lingered on me, "We want to save you, Moon. So no one can ever hurt you again. So you can grow up and be just fine. What happened to you was wrong, they were monsters. And monsters have to be destroyed."

Now she was looking at me like I was a unicorn. Sherlock squeezed my hand, and I just noticed he had been holding it. I looked at him in shock and he shot me a beautiful smile, one that said everything and nothing at all.

"We moved around a lot. One of the places was near a hospital," She said. Sherlock's eyes shot to her and I saw him mentally writing down everything she said, analyzing it, "It was near the edge of London, I think. There were a lot of trees around. I used to try to focus on the sound of the ambulances while, while…" While they raped her.

She looked a little blank all of the sudden. Sherlock pulled his hand from mine and knelt on the edge of his seat, taking her hand, "You can do this, Moon. Tell me where they were."

She looked between us, shook her head, and then became determined, "Another place was by train tracks. It was in these big metal houses, like the last- Oh! On the opposite side was the Thames; we drove by it to get there."

"Good! Great!" Sherlock was getting excited now. So was she, evidently.

"The third place was in the basement of a very tall building. From the window I could see the big Ferris wheel."

"The Eye?" I piped up.

"Yes, that one!" She gulped, "That one was where the boss lived."

"Boss…?" Sherlock echoed what I was thinking.

She nodded, "He controlled all the kids, and we weren't supposed to talk to him, just do what he said. All the other adults took orders from him, but he didn't speak very much English."

"The adults, what can you tell me about them?"

"We travelled around a lot with the same people, they called them our handlers. There were three types of guys; handlers, slayers, and guards. The handlers did what they wanted with us, and took care of us. They gave us food and water, and sold us and collected the money."

"Like pimps," I muttered disgustedly. She continued.

"The guards made sure we didn't leave, and punished us if we tried to leave. Sometimes they left us in boxes for days, or didn't feed us for days, or beat us, or…" She trailed off. I knew what she wanted to say. Sometimes they raped them.

"What about the slayers?" Sherlock said to change the subject. It made her face pale.

"They were the worst, but there weren't many of them. Only three or four at each place. If you were sent to the slayers, it was bad."

"Why?"

She looked solemnly up at us, "The slayers only job were to kill the kids, and get rid of the bodies."

"Why would they kill the kids?" I stared blankly at her.

"Because, the younger kids sold the best," She shook her head, "When a kid got too old, they weren't wanted anymore."

"And they can't set them free because they would talk," Sherlock closed his eyes and I swore I saw him shiver, "Just one more question, Moon, and then you can go."

"Okay," She looked very strong in that moment.

"Do you remember any names?"

She looked up at the ceiling, "My handler told us to call him Mister Pepper, but I don't think that was his real name…" Her eyes shot open, "Oh! There was a man; I only saw him when I stayed where the boss lived. They called him Mr. Aleksei. He translated what the boss said. They said he was the bosses son."

"Fantastic," Sherlock stood up, "Anything else we should know?"

"Yes," She looked up, "I once heard that there was a fourth kind; the gatherers. They go to families who are about to lose everything and offer to buy their children. That's how they get the children."

My stomach dropped. Disgusting. The information seemed to please Sherlock though, "Excellent. Moon, I swear I will catch these bad guys." He swept towards the door and opened it.

"Sherlock?" Her tiny voice waded across the room towards us. He stopped and turned around, "Thank you."

He offered her a smile and walked out into the hallway past the social worker as she re-entered the room. She wore a dazzled expression, clearly amazed that Sherlock had gotten Moon to talk.

I smirked as the door closed behind us after her. Sherlock whipped out his phone and began typing quickly. Lestrade approached us from where he had been pacing moments before.

"Well?" He folded his arms, expecting to hear that Sherlock had screwed up.

A few moments passed and Sherlock flipped back his phone and slid it into his pocket, "Dmitri Chepelskii, do you know of him?"

"He runs a string of hotels, doesn't he?" I said before Lestrade could answer. Sherlock smirked at me and nodded.

"More commonly, I know his son Aleksei," Lestrade frowned, "He's been arrested a few times, and it's rumored that he's part of the Russian gang around here."

"Yes, well," Sherlock looked down the hallway, "I've just sent you the locations of three places that this ring most likely has used, or is using, that the girl told me about. I suspected Chepelskii at first; since we have no sightings, it is obvious that the ring isn't working from abandoned places, I'd say privately owned. She confirmed my suspicion that there were multiple rings, which means the owner was probably very wealthy; I doubt he makes his big money in child prostitution. No, Chepelskii fits the bill. He owns four hotels, two in central London; at least one of which has an area for this trade in the basement, that's one of the places I sent you. He has a wing dedicated to him in a small hospital on the outskirts of London, and probably owns some warehouses over there that definitely house some children. Also some warehouses between the train-tracks and the Thames, which John and I will go check out, if you'll let us."

Lestrade looked amazed, "Yeah, of course. What should I send my officers to do?"

"For now, send a few to silently check out the other places I emailed you. Privately get a list of buildings that Mr. Chepelskii owns while John and I go check out the warehouse to see if it's still in use. If it's not; he may have sold it and we don't have much of a case, because that means he's changing land. If it IS in use, I'll text you and you can get a warrant for his arrest. From there, we can work on setting these kids free and arresting some people," He turned and started to walk down the hall, "And God, do I look forward to seeing them rot in jail."

Lestrade smiled and I ran to catch up with Sherlock, pulling into a quick pace beside him.

"As effective as it was, Sherlock," I sighed when we were far from Lestrade, "I don't know how much I approve of you lying about being sexually assaulted." I wanted to ask him why he grabbed my hand, but chances were he hadn't even noticed, or didn't even care.

He stopped and looked oddly at me, "What makes you think I was lying?"

I stared at him widely. I hadn't thought of that. "Were you?"

"Not like it matters, but no, I wasn't."

"Sexually assaulted or lying?"

"Lying."

Not lying? I knew my mouth fell open, I probably should have hid my shock a little better. Sherlock, who could beat a man half to death with his bare hands, was taken advantage of?

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" I gaped. He rolled his eyes and started walking again.

"You never asked."

"That's not something that comes up in conversation!" I caught up to him, "Sherlock, that's something you tell someone when you trust them."

"And?"

"And don't you trust me enough to tell me?"

"I don't really see how it matters. Actually, I'm surprised you hadn't guessed. I'm sexually distant, and I have trust issues. What did you think happened?"

"Just seemed like normal Sherlock to me," I stepped in front of him and forced him to stop as a few whispering officers passed us. When they were out of earshot, I continued, "When was it?"

"The first time was when I was thirteen," He looked back a bit, "About that girl's age. It was a man my mother was dating. He just molested me, and they broke up for a few months. The second time was when I was fifteen, when he returned to rape me."

Sherlock said it so nonchalantly, like he was talking about what he had for breakfast. But underneath the mask, I saw how much pain he was in to talk about it. It actually might have been this whole case and experience in general, but he looked suddenly sad. And alone. And scared.

And I was fucking angry.

I felt it rising in me and tried to calm down, but I was pissed. How anyone could violate someone like Sherlock, when he was just a kid was… was… Well, it was revolting. I wanted to find this man and kick his ass.

"Did you tell your mother?" Was all I mustered the courage to ask.

"Of course I did, when I was nineteen or so. She told me to piss off and now we don't talk."

I stared, open mouthed at him, "And Mycroft?"

"Oh, he believes me. Before you go off on a killing spree, don't worry, the man is already dead."

"What?" I frowned, "How?"

"I said Mycroft knows, didn't I?"

I momentarily pictured Mycroft with a hatchet, cutting down a big scary man for the virginity of his brother. Then I realized that was stupid. Mycroft would just hire someone to do it.

"I wish I'd known." I clenched my fists and bit my lip.

"Does it change anything?" Sherlock asked. It was a rhetorical question, but he sort of wanted to know, too. I could tell.

"No, not really," I sighed and looked up to meet his eyes, "But I care about you, Sherlock. And knowing that might help me take a little more care in what I say."

"I'm not a child," Sherlock smirked coldly, "You don't have to watch what you say around me or pretend sex doesn't exist. I am fine."

I just stared at him, feeling a bit hopeless. I didn't know how to express to him that I just wanted to know, because I wanted him to trust me. Sherlock however, as it had always been, seemed to be reading my mind, because his face softened considerably.

"You look like a puppy." He said blatantly.

"Maybe you're hurting my feelings." I looked away and folded my arms.

"Oh, am I?" He laughed deeply. A good laugh, I have decided. He then did something completely out of character. He took a step, closing the distance between us and cupped my face, resting a kiss on my forehead.

My face probably lit up to the colour of a fire truck. He pulled away with a grin and tapped my arm as he passed me.

"Come on, John, we have some children to save."


	2. Part Two

I have returned (finally) with another chapter!

And it's SHORT. BOO. Oh well. The next one will be long.

My Junior year is coming to an end so I do apologize for how long it's taking... I'll do my best!

Also, sorry for errors. I currently no longer have a beta... Not like she did much anyway. I should probably get a new one. Sadness.

Anywho, here you go.

I don't own BBC's Sherlock. ((((SADLY)))))

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><p>"Do you have your gun, John?"<p>

Sherlock stepped around the cab as I got out and asked me, like he didn't already know. I never made the mistake of leaving the apartment without my gun, because on most occasions, we needed it.

Despite running into danger with Sherlock for a year, something churned inside my stomach when we ran into the unknown. Today something felt significantly wrong, probably based around the circumstance of this case. These were children. Not that we hadn't dealt with children, but this was different.

We got out of the cab, and there was nothing between us and the warehouse, just a lot of space. It looked abandoned, and there was a chain link fence enclosing all of it. I glanced up and down the lot for the gate that would let us in, but Sherlock obviously had other plans when he started to climb the fence.

"Sherlock!" I hissed, "What are you doing?"

He rolled his eyes like it was obvious, "I'm climbing the fence," And damn, it _was_ obvious.

"We could, you know, find the gate!"

"And let everyone know we're coming?" He smirked down at me, "Really John, I'd expect you to be so much more of a sleuth."

I grumbled a bit under my breath and grabbed the fence, climbing after him.

After we successfully landed in the dirt on the other side of the chains, Sherlock darted quickly and smoothly over the empty land, kicking up dust behind him. I fell into a slow run to follow, secretly cursing my short legs as well as his long ones.

When we reached the side of the building, Sherlock didn't look at me. Instead he crept along slowly, a bit like some sort of large cat hunting its prey, carefully avoiding the windows.

"Alright, John?" He called back to me.

"Oh yeah, fantastic," my voice was thick with sarcasm, "Just following a lunatic into dangerous waters. Again."

I could practically hear him smirking, "You've never complained before."

"True," I smiled, "Perhaps because he's a dear friend of mine."

Sherlock turned and caught my eye, looked like he might be about to reply when we both heard a loud crash from inside the building. Sherlocks eyes darted around, gathering that 'deducing' look while I immediately withdrew my gun.

Sherlock locked my eyes and mouthed one word; _Abandoned?_

_Could have been a cat_ I mouth back. As if in ironic reply, I immediately hear voices echoing from inside the building. Sherlocks lip curled and he set off sneaking along the wall, overly quickly. I followed his steps begrudgingly.

He stopped about ten feet later just outside an open window. I could hear the raised voices flowing out, but I still couldn't understand them. Not in this room, then. Sherlock pushed the window open a bit further and climbed inside, his coat swooping dramatically behind him. I gaped, but didn't question; just followed.

This room was small, not saying much because the building itself wasn't that big for a warehouse; probably big enough to store the twenty or thirty children and their keepers that brought them here. The though sent a shiver up my spine that I tried to ignore. The atrocities that probably happened in this very room astounded me, and disgusted me. It was fairly empty now, though. Aside from a few spider-webs and scratches on the floor that said a bed or two used to be in here. I shuddered again.

Sherlock didn't seem fazed, of course. He was in complete focus now, slinking across the room and listening at the closed door. After a moment, he stood tall and opened it quietly, slipping out with me close behind.

What we were in seemed to be a storage room compared to this larger room. From where we stood, I could tell it was massive and probably originally used for manufacturing, but had been turned into something else entirely. Faux walls were placed up, creating a maze of sorts of rooms and hallways. Instead of doors, there were pieces of cloth-turned-curtains. The walls didn't reach the ceiling however, so all the noises bounced into every corner. Sherlock and I seemed to be trapped inside a small make-shift hallway crowded a bit by boxes. It looked worse than I had imagined a sex-trade area would look like, and seemed as though they were in the process of moving out, which intrigued me.

"There are definitely men here," Sherlock said quietly, a low voice meant just for me, "Which means there are kids. Not too many, I imagine. I believe they're abandoning this area, and using it as storage at the moment."

Storing kids. Only Sherlock could say it like it didn't mean much. But I saw something in his eyes, a flicker of something like anxiety. Maybe he was nervous, after all, or thrilled about saving these kids. That was enough for me to focus on.

Sherlock took quiet steps along the hallway, being careful not to echo and I did the same. After a few minutes, there was another loud bang and a shout, and Sherlock all but shoved me through one of the curtains it a room. There were heavy footsteps, impossibly close. I sprawled into the corner and readied my gun at the make-shift doorway while Sherlock flattened against the wall.

"Stupid fucking kids, I'd hate this job if I couldn't kick them flat in the ass." A man growled, his footsteps retreating before being cut off by a slamming door. I assumed he had entered one of the adjoining rooms, perhaps even the one we entered from.

Sherlock was moving again fast, brushing through the curtains. I groaned silently and followed. He crossed the hall and walked through another faux-doorway, the one I assumed the man had just left from. This room didn't have any curtains.

It was bigger than the other two rooms by a bit, complete with about five or six pads on the floor and two actual beds, though they looked uncomfortable, as well as a table with a few plates and glasses. Gathered in the center of the room were a few kids. They looked up at us, almost horrified as we entered. The oldest one, a boy of maybe eleven years old, stood from where he had been kneeling. One side of his face was red, and I realized the crash we had heard was probably that man hitting the poor kid. Anger rose in my belly like a fire.

He faced us, looking angry himself, "Who are you? Leave us alone, we don't want to work anymore."

I felt my face droop in horror. They thought we were… well, customers. The boy was tall and lanky, obviously nearing the start of puberty. Standing behind him were two more girls, who looked like twins, about six years old, as well as a blonde girl around eight, and a very little boy who couldn't have been more than three.

I was speechless, but luckily Sherlock didn't seem to ever be, "We're here to help you, please, cooperate and we will get you out of her. Are there any other children in the building?"

The boy looked stunned, and his face grew wary. The little blonde girl, however, bounced forward with excitement, "Yes, just one!"

"Take John," He pushed me forward and I stumbled a bit, glaring back at him. He met my eyes, "I will move the children back into the room we entered from. Follow this girl and gather whoever else is here and meet me back there."

"Sherlock, you don't have a gun," my voice came out more deadly serious than I intended.

He smirked, "John, I've never needed one."

I rolled my eyes, still feeling discomforted. I turned to the little girl, who eagerly grabbed my hand. She was loads more friendly than Moon already. She pulled me out of the room on the opposite side we had entered, and I already felt a bit nervous, gripping my gun with my other hand carefully.

She led me down the hall, through a few inter-connected rooms. She navigated very well, I noted. Eventually we entered a room, windowless and incredibly small. The only thing in the room was a large pile of blankets. She stopped and pointed at it. I raised an eyebrow and approached it. I was just thinking that perhaps the child was gone when I saw.

Oh god, no.

Cradled in the blankets was a baby, probably not even a year old yet. Anger again rose up inside me. What horrible, horrible monsters could do such a thing? Kidnap child, just a baby; raise it into this disgusting trade.

I scooped the baby into my arms and it stirred faintly. The little girls tugged on my pants and I looked down at her.

"Her name is Lucy," She said with a smile, and then it faded into awe, "Are you really going to save us, mister?"

I blinked hopefully, "I'm going to try. You and all the other kids. But I need you to be quiet and follow me back to my friend, okay?"

She nodded and started leading me back through the maze of rooms and corridors before we were back in the familiar hallway. She trotted ahead, through the curtain a few feet before me. As I entered the doorway into the larger room, a single gunshot rang out. I instinctively moved, but immediately saw that the shot was not for me. The little girl tumbled down, her blonde curls mixed from the blood of the head-wound.

My eyes trailed upward to meet the gaze of the man standing on the other side of the empty room. He was bald and not very big, but he held a gun and had just killed an innocent child. He then pointed the gun at me. I gripped the baby in my arms and prepared to move.

Suddenly, a flash of black and Sherlock was behind the man, kicking his legs out from under him as he fired, a lone shot that echoed out and was lost over the wall behind me. Sherlock smacked the gun from is hand just as the man turned and shoved Sherlock back into the table, smashing all the glass on it. I heard my friend yell out in pain and I finally realized I had to react. I balanced the heavy child in one hand while I reached for the gun in my back pocket.

One shot and the man collapsed. I put another three bullets in him just to be safe. I pocketed my gun and leapt over the body as Sherlock gather himself to his feet.

"The men at the front of the building will have heard the gunshots," His brow furrowed, "We need to run _now_."

"Sherlock, your arm." I was transfixed on the stream of red blood flowing from bare skin. The glass must have cut him-

Sherlocks blue eyes seemed strangely dark as they locked onto mine, "John, _now._"

I nodded and followed him through the doorway as I heard shouting from the front of the building. Sure enough, they would be coming. We ran into the room we had entered from, and I saw another man dead there. Sherlock must have already reached him. I pondered where the children were only for a second before I saw them outside, the older boy helping the others climb the fence. Sherlock pushed himself out the window, but I heard his yelp of pain when he put pressure on his arm.

I slid the child in my arms out to him, and he took her quickly. I pulled through the small window and slammed it shut, glancing around. There was no one here yet, but there was going to be. I reached back for the baby, but Sherlock held her and gave me a reassuring look before turning and running across the land before us. The kids were already over the fence, waiting for us now.

"Sherlock, we don't have a car!" I choked out, a bit exasperated as I ran behind him, "How are we supposed to transport these kids?"

"John, please, climb the fence," I did as he told, "I texted Mycroft before we even left the cab, don't you think I'd remember these things?"

I glanced over the fence as I reached the top and sure enough, a black car waited in the distance, oddly out of place. I hopped down, dust pluming up around me as I landed, and looked at the children around me.

"Hey, kids, see that car?" I pointed towards it, "Run, go get inside it. Now!"

They nodded and began running, but one of the twin girls stayed behind, "Where's Helga? Wasn't she with you?"

I stared at her, realizing she must be talking about the blonde girl. How could I tell a child her friend was dead? "Please go get in the car, I'll explain later."

She nodded solemnly and ran. I turned and found Sherlock knelt down before he tossed the baby in his arms over the fence.

I yelped and caught her as she fell, "Jesus! What the fuck, Sherlock! You can't just throw a baby!"

"John, how else was I supposed to- Ow," He grimaced in pain as he started climbing the fence, "Get the child across? I mean goodness John, use common sense."

"There they are!" I heard thick shouts from behind him and saw two men, a hundred feet away, running towards us.

"Uh, can you speed it up, Sherlock?" I frowned as his hand grabbed the top.

"I think I've injured myself, John."

"WELL NO SHIT." I bounced nervously as he finally dropped down next to me. We broke into a fast run and finally reached the car as the men on the other side of the fence started shooting at us.

"Fuck," I slid into the backseat with Sherlock basically piling on top of me. The kids stared wide-eyed at us and the car began to speed off quickly. I pulled into a more comfortable position and handed the now-very-awake Lucy to the oldest boy. The three year old looked on the verge of tears and both twins patted his back hopelessly.

I turned to Sherlock, who was holding up his phone.

"What are you doing?" I hissed, snatching the phone from his grip.

"Well," He frowned, "I _was_ texted Lestrade that we would be arriving shortly."

"You're bleeding, Sherlock."

"So I am."

I rolled my eyes and grabbed his arm, pulling up his destroyed sleeve to examine it. It was extremely deep, he was going to need stitches.

I sighed and looked up at him, suddenly realizing how close our faces were. From inches away, he stared me down, a new expression replacing his usual one. He looked kind of… weak. I didn't like it, and it kind of shocked me.

My face was probably growing red so I let go and turned away, "I'll stitch you up at the police station. Should we be concerned about the fact we just kidnapped five kids from the, uh, trade?"

Sherlocks smile was devious, "Oh yes. Now they'll start to panic. And when people panic-"

"They make mistakes." I finished. I'd heard it probably a hundred times. The rest of the ride home was silent except for the sniffling of the crying toddler.


	3. Part Three

Sorry it took so long people! I'm a Junior, finals, you know the deal.

But here it is! **The final chapter to Absent Roses!** I hope it does not disappoint!

I urge you all, if you like my writing, to follow my fanfic tumblr (acrwritings) or, if you heart me, my personal tumblr (believe-holmes)

Anywho. Here you go! Once again, **HUGE TW FOR SEXUAL VIOLENCE **

I do not own BBCs Sherlock (if I did, oh the slash...)

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><p>The yard had become a mess of people.<p>

There were cops everywhere, running around while Lestrade told them what to do. I had stopped listening to the details of Sherlocks plans, but I knew that it involved a lot of traps to catch Chepelskii while he was making mistakes, catch him in the act, blah blah blah. Arrangements were being made, and I was smart enough to know our role in this case was over now. There were loads of social workers and nurses checking the children. We got a bit caught up in the haze of people, and somehow ended up in an empty room where they were keeping the baby.

I sewed up Sherlocks arm carefully. It was interesting to watch him wince as the needle laced through him. You'd think he would have found some way to make himself immune to pain, but I guess even the great Sherlock Holmes is human. He was distant looking, and unreadable. His eyes drifted over the baby, moving slightly in the crib.

"Are you okay?" I asked after a while.

"Hmm? Oh, yes." He didn't look at me, "It's a bit odd, I didn't think I'd feel this way after solving the case."

"It's not solved yet," I tied off the thread in his arm, "And it's okay to feel a bit empty, this case did stump you for a long time."

"It did."

"So it's natural."

Sherlock made a noise like he didn't want to be natural, which he probably didn't. I watched him stand up and approach the crib.

"Do you think I could hold it?" He said.

I stared at him for a moment before I realized what he was saying, "What? The baby? Really?"

"Yes."

"Um, sure," I stood up awkwardly, "I was told her name is Lucy."

"Hmm…" Sherlock reached down and picked her up from under her arms. I inwardly thought he shouldn't be picking anything up with his stitches, but ignored it. He cradled her in his arms almost naturally, like he'd done it before. But his face wasn't affectionate, more… calculating.

"I thought you hated children."

"I do," He said deeply, "They're loud and sticky and they smell horrible."

I giggled at that, making him look at me for the first time since we had reached the station. His gaze made my heart speed up a bit.

"Is that funny?" He looked genuinely interested.

"Yes." Was all I could manage to say. After a moment of feeling odd, I added, "You're often funny when you don't mean to be."

"Why?"

"Other people aren't so honest."

He smiled faintly and returned his eyes to her. He held her out to me and, after a moment's hesitation; I took her in my arms.

"My childhood was miserable at best."

I glanced at him. He had never offered information about his childhood to me before, and I was almost shocked. I wanted to hear it though, almost desperately.

"How so?"

"Mycroft is a lot older than me, by seven years," Sherlock leaned on his hands and watched me, "He wasn't around very often. My father died when I was three, so I never knew much of him except he was the descendant of a duke, and we were very rich because of it."

I cradled the baby and watched his blank facial features carefully, "What about your mother?"

"Mummy was a drinker after father died. She was an elegant woman, and held her alcohol accordingly," he snorted, "But she went through men like they were nothing but expendable to her. Mycroft was the good child, and I had… issues. Obviously."

I nodded. I could imagine a tiny Sherlock, extremely intelligent, but antisocial. It wouldn't have gone well with a mother like that.

"What does she look like?"

"She's tall, but I'm taller," He leaned back as though he was trying to remember, "She had brown hair and eyes, like Mycroft. Extremely beautiful. I sadly took after my father in looks, which meant the rage she felt towards him was obviously always directed at me."

"She beat you?"

"She hit me. It was in my interest to never hit her back. When she would have too much to drink, or I'd get in trouble at school, or I wasn't as good as Mycroft, or I was rude to her 'guests', she'd hit me hard."

I stared at him.

"When her boyfriend molested me, oh," He laughed bitterly, and I saw the emotion in his face for a second, "She hit me so hard. Called me a liar."

"Sherlock…" He seemed like he was lost in his own little world of imaginings at this point, but I wasn't sure I could take it.

"She loved him, I think. That's why she would refuse to believe it. He was the only man who was allowed to come back, years later. And that's when he raped me. It took me months to tell Mycroft, and Mycroft told mummy. It was the only time I had ever seen her turn her rage on him. She refused to believe us, of course. That's when I moved out."

"How old were you?"

"By then, sixteen. I lived with Mycroft until I went to Uni." His eyes drifted to mine and he smiled, "Don't be so upset, John."

"He hurt you." I stood up and put the now-sleeping baby in the crib, "That makes me mad. And sad."

"Why?"

"No one should go through that," I stared long and hard at him, but he looked unphased. After a few moments, he coughed and looked away awkwardly.

"You're a good friend for caring."

I tried not to let my jaw drop at and actual compliment from him, "I'd care if it was anyone Sherlock…"

"But you care a lot, because it's me." He looked at me then.

I gulped, "Yeah, of course. You're my best friend."

He approached me quickly, and I tried not to jump as he advanced. He stopped a few inches in front of me and stared into my eyes harshly.

"It's appreciated." Was all he said before he leaned forward and kissed my forehead. Again.

He swooped around and my cheeks were growing red. He was heading for the door, "Wait!" I called. He stopped, "Why do you keep doing that?"

"Aren't signals mandatory for showing our affections?" He smirked at me.

"Yeah, like, you hug your friends. Kisses are more romantically implied though."

"Are they?" He said sarcastically. Something in his voice said 'no shit' which made my stomach drop as he left through the door. I frowned and collapsed on the chair. _He's such an annoying tosser._

* * *

><p>The case was wrapped up. Not really, of course. There was so much planning and capturing to be done. But our involvement in the case was over, so I understood Lestrade's sentiment.<p>

Sherlock darted ahead of me and up the stairs to our apartment. I shared his enthusiasm, since we had been at the Yard all day answering questions and dealing with a relative amount of shit. I had also, notably, been flirting casually with the social worker woman with the blue eyes. I had, of course, obtained her number. But at this point, a warm bed was the only thing on my mind. It seemed to also be the only thing on Sherlocks, which was unusual.

"Sherlock?" I entered the apartment after him, "Do you want to order some food?"

"No," he said quickly, "I'd like to retire, thank you."

After that he just went into his room and shut the door. I stared after him for a few moments, a bit confused. This day had been long and complicated. Sherlocks lips had touched me twice, and moreover, it had given me… feelings. Feelings I didn't really want to admit.

I couldn't ignore my aching stomach so I advanced towards the kitchen. I made a sandwich while I reflected on my complex emotions. I had suspected Sherlock was gay for a long time, if he wasn't completely asexual. I had seen him flirt with men and women for the sake of the case, and he was obviously good at it. He also knew he was ridiculously attractive, of course, and he would use it to his advantage.

After things with Irene, I began to question his sexuality. And then after a while, I began to question mine. Someone doesn't get to be my age without experimenting quite a bit. In the army, after no sex with women for months, men learn ways to help each other without being gay. And in Uni I had received quite a few blowjobs from my Tranny roommate. But I had convinced myself it wasn't gay if he was dressed like a woman, right?

In the end, I had always appreciated the female form and workings. I loved women, and sex with women, and dating women, and falling in love with women. But being around Sherlock didn't feel like any of that. On the small occasion that his hand brushed mine, my heart would speed up. With his lips brushing my skin, I felt hot urges I hadn't felt before. And it was complicated on so many levels. Because I lived with the man! And he was married to his work. And I worked _with _him. And we were just friends.

And when he told me he was raped…. Ugh. I stopped making my food and closed my eyes. I could imagine Sherlock as a teenager; lanky and sarcastic, curly haired with the bittersweet attractive young face and bright eyes. Now I pictured him pinned under some huge, disgusting monster. Sherlock wouldn't scream, no… would he? I could picture him fighting; kicking and punching as hard as he could to get away. I could picture that.

The image filled my head. Sherlock being bruised, used, broken, his innocence being taken away.

I let out a guttural growl and my eyes flew open. I reached for the nearest thing, a plate, and threw it across the room. It hit the wall with an ear-shattering crash. I breathed heavily for a few seconds before crumpling down onto the floor.

There weren't many people in my life I was truly protective over. Actually when I thought about it, Harry used to be the only one, but she was my sister so that was expected. Maybe now I didn't want anyone hurting Mrs. Hudson or Molly. But I definitely didn't want anyone laying a FINGER on Sherlock. That was evident, and sealed in fate the moment I shot the cabbie.

At this point, my eyes were resting in my palms. I was angry, and maybe I was shaking, I couldn't tell.

"John," Cold hands stretched over the length of my shoulders. I looked up into bright blue eyes on mine. If I was shaking, I must have stopped then. Thinking about Sherlock hurt was bad, but seeing him in front of me whole… that made me feel better.

"Sherlock," I sighed and leaned back against the counter, stretching my legs out. He was crouched in front of me, half straddling me.

"What's wrong? Why are you throwing dishware?"

"What? Oh, right. The plate." I laughed breathily, "Yeah, no. I'm okay. Just needed to release some anger."

The genuine concern in Sherlocks eyes looked so out of place on his face that I nearly started giggling hysterically. But I suddenly noticed his hands were still gripping my shoulders and my heart was pounding hard in my ears.

"Why are you angry?"

I met his eyes, "Uh, it's just… You know. What you told me today."

"That I was raped?"

The way he said it so nonchalantly, like it wasn't something horrible and traumatizing, "Yeah."

"Oh," His face softened. He let go of my shoulders and moved off me, settling to sit down next to me on the floor, "I don't understand why you're so upset still, I apologize."

"Don't be sorry. It's just horrible. I imagine something like that happening to someone I love, and it's horrible. I'm glad you're okay, and I know it happened way before I met you but… It just makes me so bad. That someone could hurt you."

Sherlock and I didn't talk for a few minutes. Finally, he spoke in a cold and calculating voice, "I used to think I deserved it."

My head shot around, "You didn't."

"I was truly a terrible child," he laughed harshly, "I could have been nice to my mother, been the better person, tried harder, but I didn't. I think that's why she left me unprotected that night, that's why he went to me. Hurt me. Split me open like I was a useless whore. I was useless."

I was shaking now, again. And he kept talking.

"In all truth, I did find him attractive. I tried my best to shoot him dark looks when we were alone in the hallway passing, wear less clothes then I should. And he looked at me that way, and no one had ever looked at me that way. Maybe it felt good to have him look at me."

"Stop."

"But I didn't want him to do it. Not when he came into my room. I had ever even kissed a man, when he molested me before I was too young to understand. But now I was. I didn't even scream. I zoned out, became numb. That's the first time I ever realized I could control my emotions, make the feelings go away."

"Stop, please," I pressed my face into my palms, "Why are you telling me this?"

"I…" He stopped talking. I looked sideways at him. He looked genuinely lost, an emotion I had never seen on him before. Horrible tattered and broken, "I don't know. I trust you to know."

I smiled at that, though my heart still felt like a wreck, "Have you ever… you know, done anything since?"

He looked oddly at me, "No."

"Ah," I sat back and looked away. What a weird question, god. I am such a freak. He trusted me and here I was, trying to find out exactly how much of an innocent he was.

"Perhaps I've wanted to."

"Really?" I glanced over. He might have been red in the face, "With Irene?"

"Ah, no. I was infatuated with her though."

"I remember," I smiled and raised an eyebrow, "So, who?"

He stared right at me for a long moment, "I'd rather not say. Some things are supposed to remain a secret, isn't that a rule in friendship?"

"Not this sort of stuff!" I bounced up onto my knees and poked him with a finger, grinning, "Who? Do I know them?"

"I'd say that's accurate, yes."

"Oh, come on Sherlock! You have to tell me." I was balanced in a crouch on my toes now, staring at him. He stared back stubbornly.

A smirk crossed his face and he pushed me with a hand. I lost my balance and toppled backwards, my arse hitting the floor with a good thump. I scoffed and looked up, but he was advancing towards me. My heart beat loudly as he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to my ear, his hand flattening on my chest and pressing me down. Soon I was laying on the floor, red in the face and flushed, him laying over me. I could feel him grinning against my ear.

"I'll give you a hint," he whispered. It tickled and went almost right to my dick, "I've already kissed him twice."

"Oh," was all I managed to say. He sat up and hovered his face over mine for a few seconds.

"Is that okay? That I want to kiss you?"

I tried to think of an appropriate response to that question, "Yes." Wow, genius.

He leaned so close I could feel his breath on my face, "Can I?"

"Please."

His lips came to rest on mine, and my stomach must have flipped inside of me. It was soft, and I resisted deepening it to let him have control. I wanted him, but my desire to have him feel safe was so much stronger then my desire to take him.

He pulled back, and suddenly he was calculating again, "Interesting."

"What?"

"You didn't push or grab like I expected."

I let out a breath I didn't know I had been holding, "You trust me."

"Yes?"

"I don't want to fuck that up."

He laughed, "I trust you, John. Which means you can grab me if you want to."

I didn't need much more permission then that.


End file.
